


The Wrath Of The Lamb

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: #watchthedramaunfold, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, WHERE DID THIS COME FROM, bilbo has wrath, fluff fluff fluff, fluuuuuuufffffff, i seriously dont know right now, like wow, melodramatic thorin, never wake him up early, not even kidding bruh, this stuff will rot your teeth, ttags contain my life story now apparently, uh oh alarm clock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo simply will not budge.</p><p>Which is unfortunate, as the alarm clock is about to go off and the last time Bilbo was woken by an alarm clock the bed, walls, carpet and said clock had never been the same again and Bilbo had not spoken to anyone for a week.</p><p>Doom is approaching, and Thorin reflects on his last precious moments of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrath Of The Lamb

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sleepyhead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/923851) by [Armitages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armitages/pseuds/Armitages). 



> so  
> this  
> happened  
> i swear i say that too much but i also swear it applies to everything i write  
> ...  
> you'll see

* * *

 

**__"Then the kings of the earth, the princes, the generals, the rich, the mighty, and every slave and every free man hid in caves and among the rocks of the mountains. They called to the mountains and the rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! For the great day of their wrath has come, and who can stand?”"_ _ **

 

* * *

 

 

_He’s choking. Dying. Suffocating. There’s a heavy tree fallen on him, snapping his ribs and crushing the air out of his lungs. The ground below him is soft, so, so soft, so wonderfully soft, and he thinks he is going mad. The sky is black and the ground is black and the tree is black except why is the tree so warm, and soft, and why is it moving –_

Thorin woke with a gasp, sleep-muddled eyes snapping open without pause. He was not in a night-coated forest, he was not dying and there was no tree trunk crushing his abdomen, but there was _something_ there right enough.

Thorin stared down at the murderous, rib crushing life-destroying object that was currently flattening his waist, and couldn’t hold back a small laugh as his husband stretched and muttered, shifting his surprisingly heavy weight.  Oh yes, Bilbo Durinson, née Baggins, was most certainly a rib-snapper; yet a braver man than Thorin Durinson would hesitate to call him a tree.

As if in answer to Thorin’s thoughts, Bilbo frowned and snuffled and wrinkled his pointed nose, drawing the sheets up to his chin and burying his face into his husband’s chest. Thorin thought he even caught a muttered _‘how dare you’_ and instantly decided never to even think unflattering thoughts when in his partner’s presence.

Thorin turned his head, wincing at the soreness in his neck, and peered blearily at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table.

 

**7:53**

 

The numbers seemed to be laughing at him.

Heaving a loud (and melodramatic) sigh, Thorin set about the task of prying his husband off him. A task that proved to be more difficult than first appeared, as whenever Thorin attempted to remove the arms clenched in a death grip around his waist, said arms would tighten even more, coupled with a loud grumble from said husband.

 _Bilbo could give those medieval torture machines a run for their money,_ Thorin thought gloomily. Who needs a metal vice when you can just get a small, curly-haired man to crush the life out of the accused?

The blinking red numbers were getting nearer and nearer to 8:00, and Thorin was starting to panic just a little because the alarm went off at 8:00 and the last time Bilbo had been woken by the alarm the bed, walls, carpet and clock had never been the same again and Bilbo had not spoken to anyone for a week.

 

**7:56**

 

 _Nononononono please Mahal spare me,_ Thorin moaned internally. He was too young to die! At least last time he hadn’t been in the room – judging by the state of the pillows last time, he would most certainly not leave the encounter unscathed. Thorin tugged gingerly at Bilbo’s wrist – _comeoncomeoncomeon –_ of course resulting in a somehow even tighter death grip.

Thorin was sure he heard his ribs creak.

 

**7:59**

 

Oh, he was for it now. He was really, really for it.

Thorin gave his husband’s arm one last pleading tug (his ribs would really never be the same) before admitting defeat and slumping back against the mound of pillows. In what he was sure would be his last moments, he studied the details of his husband’s face; he wanted to carry the memory of his beloved through the Halls of Mahal, if he could.

Even if he _was_ the one to kill him.

So Thorin studied the corkscrewing golden curls, the pointed nose, the careworn lines and the deep bags under his eyes; he noted the steady breathing and the scent of maple syrup and cinnamon, and thought that if he was about to die this wasn’t the worst way to go.

 

**8: 00**   


 

 _Beep, beep, beep,_ went the death knoll of Thorin Durinson. The bleeping was metallic and invasive, piercing said Durinson’s eardrums and breaking the peace of his last moments.

Bilbo was stirring.

_Oh. Mahal. Above. Please. Please. Please. Have. Mercy. On. My. Soul._

The arms contracted briefly before loosening, accompanied by a muffled groan. The curly head rose, the amber eyes blinked open–

‘Thorin, dear, will you turn that blasted contraption off?’ Bilbo murmured sleepily, his eyes drooping. Thorin froze solid for a fraction of a second, before melting under the giddy realisation that he was _not_ about to be murdered by his cave-bear husband.

‘Of course,’ Thorin said softly, leaning over to depress the switch and shut off that dratted bleeping. Bilbo muttered a little at the shift in position, but he cuddled back against Thorin’s side without much protest.

 

Thorin carded a hand through his husband’s soft hair, studying the way that the dim morning light caught the gold of his curls, and decided that the Wrath of the Lamb was a lovely thing indeed.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> WWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW im sorry about your teeth c:  
> bag gi n sh ie l d tho man  
> i cri evrytim  
> THEY LIVED OKAY  
> okay  
> ;-;  
> *has major issues*


End file.
